I didn't think about whether I was writing poems. I was thinking. And the more I was thinking, the more there was I didn't understand
by Jean de La Fontaine
SICK, Alice grown, and fearing dire event,
Some friend advised a servant should be sent
Her confessor to bring and ease her mind;--
Yes, she replied, to see him I'm inclined;
Let father Andrew instantly be sought:--
By him salvation usually I'm taught.
A MESSENGER was told, without delay,
To take, with rapid steps, the convent way;
He rang the bell--a monk enquired his name,
And asked for what, or whom, the fellow came.
I father Andrew want, the wight replied,
Who's oft to Alice confessor and guide:
With Andrew, cried the other, would you speak?
If that's the case, he's far enough to seek;
Poor man! he's left us for the regions blessed,
And has in Paradise ten years confessed.